


Coddled

by allredpen



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Light Feminization, M/M, Mommy Kink, Praise Kink, Shane madej is not a sex snapple don't listen to his lies, Topping from the Bottom, hard mode: all cowgirl, shane is a little baby guinea pig with anxiety honey, stuck together for Christmastime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28489110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allredpen/pseuds/allredpen
Summary: When he dreams, he dreams of muscular shoulders and stubble and his subconscious shows his consciousness he’s not the straight arrow he had once accepted by default.-Shane gets a crisis and a new kink for Christmas.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 23
Kudos: 113
Collections: Skeptic Believer Book Club Secret Santa





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedLlamas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLlamas/gifts).



> For the Bridge Club Secret Santa. 
> 
> [ Raí, ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLlamas/pseuds/RedLlamas/) you presented me with something I would not normally have ventured to write of my own volition, but I loved branching out, and I hope you like your gift. 
> 
> The first chapter of this has only implications of a mommy kink, the second chapter is explicit, in case anyone would like to swerve. Similarly, chapter not really explicit until chapter two.

No matter how long he’s lived in LA, every year that passes leaves Shane surprised anew at the half-hearted way Winter ambles through the door. It’s 75 _every day_ through the first weeks of December, and showing no signs of dropping in time for the change of season. Shane knows it’s 75 every day, because he’s had three fights with Ryan about it this week. 

“I don’t want to sit through another slam poetry session about snow in the midwest, Shane.” Ryan drops his bowl down onto the table. 

“You’re telling me,” Shane starts. “That you like sweating through the pits of your shirt while Bing Crosby sings White Christmas?”

“I’m telling you that you’re allowed to have a rosé and enjoy yourself, I promise they won’t hold a town meeting in Schaumburg about it-”

“-They might! I’m absolutely the biggest name to come outta the suburbs of outer outer Chicago. Ask anyone.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s gonna tell Ray Bradbury?”

Shane’s grinning, because he can’t help himself, and Ryan is too. They’re just grinning at each other over their granola, like idiots, because they’re stuck together, like idiots. 

This year being what it is, Shane’s staying in LA with most of the country between him and his snow and his family, and Ryan’s parents got out of the state ages ago, while the gettin’ was good. A privilege not afforded to most, but more power to them, Shane supposes. Ryan, who was never going to spend Christmas cooped up with his housemates (or worse, alone), is here because Shane is here, and that’s that. 

When Ryan knocked on his front door with a stuffed duffel bag and a winning smile, Shane had simply stepped aside and watched as Ryan made a beeline for the cupboard and snagged the spare sheets like he owned the place. 

So now they’re here, one week into cohabiting, and two weeks out from Christmas, doing shit like wordless breakfast smiling and brushing elbows while they split dish duties. Pure domesticity.

It’s not weird, because it’s Ryan, but it’s also definitely weird for Shane, because it’s _Ryan._ Shane’s not spent this much time with anyone in months, let alone Ryan. Ryan, who sits on the counter while Shane cooks. Ryan, who stretches in his socks in the morning, bracing off the arched doorway to the lounge. Ryan, who is in Shane’s peripheral vision constantly, and touching Shane’s hip when they squeeze past each other, and touching Shane’s shoulder when he walks in a room, and touching, touching, touching always. Shane leans into it, because he hasn’t had much of touch this year, and what else is there but Ryan?

It aches, though. The ache reminds Shane of a time before now. There was a time while on the road together for Supernatural when Shane would have thrown over everything- his job, his apartment, his dubious online notoriety- for this. Every precious part of the life he’d built in LA, he would have dropped for Ryan, despite not really understanding what it was he wanted, what he would be getting for his sacrifice.

Whatever it was, it ached like this back then, ached like hell until their last night on the road. They all went out to some bar, some local dive, despite their 7am wake-up call the next day. They got screaming drunk, the lot of them, and all of it was a blur bar the moment Ryan pulled Shane aside, and leaned up to press his forehead into Shane’s. 

“I couldn’t do this without you,” Ryan had said, eyes closed, nose grazing Shane’s. “I’m so grateful to you, man, and I mean that.”

Shane had been completely incapable of replying coherently, but it had seemed like a great idea to drop his head just enough to graze the corner of Ryan’s mouth with a chaste kiss. Ryan had laughed, startled, and clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Shane’s ache grew roots down to his legs and walked him out the door, and back to the hotel. The ache had flourished when he got home, and grew like a weed on every surface, and only after months of denial and neglect did it finally brown and wither and die. 

Or, Shane thought the ache had died, until now. Now he gets to watch as Ryan turns up and stomps all over his house, looking at Shane, and touching Shane, and coaxing the ache back to life until it blooms brilliant in Shane’s chest every minute he’s awake, and when he dreams, he dreams of muscular shoulders and stubble and his subconscious shows his consciousness he’s not the straight arrow he had once accepted by default.

\--

So this is where Shane’s at: overwhelmed in his own home by pining and epiphany, and arguing with Ryan just for the thrill of it. He picks a playful fight with Ryan at every opportunity, and tonight it’s over Ryan’s electric toothbrush while they’re brushing their teeth- together, for some reason.

“I just think it’s an unnecessary flex, like, we get it, you’re cool and wealthy and you have a great smile,” he tells Ryan’s reflection. 

“What the fuck?” Ryan’s clearly trying to look upset, but his eyes twinkle. “Who are you calling rich boy? Anyway, you can get one for 20 bucks on Amazon, man.”

“Ah,” Shane says. “But _yours_ wasn’t 20 bucks on Amazon, was it?”

“No, but-” Ryan points the whirring head at Shane, flicking little bits of toothpaste onto the mirror. “-If your father was a dentist, you’d understand my fear of sub-par dental hygiene, and you’d pay any amount to avoid it.”

“See? Filthy capitalist. What’s wrong with the good ol’ fashioned toothbrush we invented centuries ago?”

“ _We_ invented?” Ryan scoffs. “There’s no we. White people were using rags and sticks until, like, 2012.”

“The year-” Shane chokes, and he’s smiling so wide that toothpaste is threatening to escape the corners of his mouth. “The year Dark Knight Rises came out? That’s when white people discovered the toothbrush?”

“That’s right. I heard Gary Oldman still insists on a rag dipped in salt. It’s on his rider.”

Shane kicks him out of the bathroom for that- “That’s slander, you son of a bitch! I’ll see you in court.”- but he’s still grinning like a loon, even when he slides under the bed covers. The ache slips in so easily when it’s dark, and the ache is the only thing that can drop the smile from Shane’s face. 

\--

The tipping point is another argument. A fight over who’s got the better range of accents, that devolves into Shane laughing with tears in his eyes while Ryan shakes him roughly by the shoulder and insists he _can_ do a Welsh accent. 

Shane’s not stupid. He knows it’s flirting, he’s always known that, but Ryan flirts with the air. Everyone on earth has been on the receiving end of Ryan’s charm, so Shane’s still shocked when Ryan punches his arm hard enough to sting and then yanks him in for a kiss. It takes Shane’s brain several minutes to catch up with his body, which has decided to run with this, and has laid Ryan down on the couch that doubles as his bed, and is slobbering all over him. Shane pulls back. 

“Uh,” he says, which doesn’t really cover it. Ryan, no doubt sensing Shane’s inherent weakness, his cowardice, springs forward and presses Shane down in turn. Straddles him, holds him by the head, kisses him until his vision goes black at the edges. 

Just like that, they’ve discovered how they’ll be passing the time, locked inside for Christmas. 

It’s all couch-bound handjobs and oral at first. In fact, they’re so frequently pawing at each other on the couch that Shane’s taken to calling them ‘ _Couchjobs’_ in his head. In his head, because he doesn’t want to tell Ryan he’s calling it that, even though Ryan would be delighted by the stupidity of that. In his head, because Shane doesn’t want to put a name to it at all. Because he doesn’t want to speak the fact of it out loud. Because he doesn’t want to scare it off. They’re hooking up like teenagers on Shane’s lumpy craigslist sectional, but to Shane it’s like they’re blowing glass, defusing bombs, building ships in bottles. 

The moment Ryan pushes his briefs down for the first time and lets his cock pop out, Shane is speechless. It’s so flushed, and red, and thick, and Shane has watched a lot of porn, but he’s never been struck silent by a penis in his life. Suddenly, inexplicably, all he wants is to get his hands all over it, and then his mouth, and also whatever other body part Ryan wishes it to touch. It’s a little humiliating, but Shane is frequently overwhelmed by just getting his hands on it, has to lay back and count to 10 while Ryan takes over for himself. More than once Shane comes from just firm pressure over the briefs while Ryan jerks himself to completion astride Shane’s chest. It’s so good like that, the first little while. 

Before each encounter, as if they need some excuse, some artifice before one of them ends up with the other’s hand down his pants, Shane puts on a Christmas movie that goes unwatched, and Ryan sets down beers that go untouched, and they give it about a minute before giving in to the petting urge. At this point just the chimes of Shane’s Smart TV booting up are getting him hard. Good thing, too, because Ryan puts his all into this, like everything, and Shane’s having twice-daily orgasms as if he’s 19 again. 

It’s blissful, is the point, and easy, to a point. Fumbling on the couch has never been complicated, but Shane is a novice to this brand of fumbling. The penis branded kind. He definitely had thought he was basically straight until he met Ryan, and now he’s breaking new sexual ground in front of The Muppet Christmas Carol every night. It must be down to Ryan that he’s not freaking out yet, Shane thinks. Each time Shane feels like he’s about to drown, Ryan takes him in hand and steers him to safe harbor. 

Still, there is one mount up ahead they have not yet scaled. Shane _wants_ to scale it, of course. Every morning he wakes up newly hard and he gets up and thinks about it, and when Ryan wanders into the kitchen, bare-chested, in low-slung sweatpants, Shane thinks about scaling it some more. 

Shane is so out of his depth. 

\--

The problem is, Shane knows what he looks like, how he comes across. From the outside, at least, he’s tall and cynical and serious where Ryan is effusive and at times hysterical. Ryan knows him better than almost anyone, knows all about how small he makes himself, but for Shane’s whole life he’s been pretty sure the only thing women have liked about him is his tallness, his big hands, his presence. Surely, he thinks, Ryan wants the same from him; the height and the beard and what is, Shane thinks, an objectively quite large dick. Shane spins himself out imagining what Ryan must have imagined about him, as a romantic interest, and when Shane looks at himself from the outside, he finds himself lacking.

So, Shane tries to ham it up. He takes to pressing Ryan up against a variety of surfaces, kissing him hard. Slapping his ass in the kitchen, manhandling him by the shoulders wherever possible. Shane’s pleased with himself for this, and more than a little jealous of it, of the attention he’s bestowing on Ryan but that he’d quite like to receive himself. Shane hopes it expresses, without words, what he’s trying to express; that he, Shane, would like to take Ryan _all the way_ like it’s prom night. 

When they finally get to it, to scaling that final mountain- mountaineering, Shane decides he will call it- it’s set to the deeply unerotic rising action of It’s a Wonderful Life, on Shane’s poor soaked and battered sectional. Ryan is above him, has laid Shane out flat, and is so uncharacteristically solicitous, it’s like he’s herding particularly harebrained cat. 

“Is this okay?” Ryan asks, for the sixth time, hand barely skidding across the surface of Shane’s skin, running fingers through the fine black hairs on Shane’s stomach, just grazing his cock.

“Yes,” Shane breathes. “It’s good.”

And it is good, Ryan seems to have gotten a feel for the workings of Shane’s body already, and he moves from jaw to nipple, drawing desperate sounds out of Shane that he didn’t know himself to be capable of. 

“I should-” When the light touches become too much, Shane makes to move, to seesaw their positions and lay _Ryan_ down on the cotton throw that’s draped over his sofa.

“No, like this.” Ryan, superior in strength as well as experience stops him with two fingers on the solar plexus. He adds, “If that’s okay.”

Shane just nods and leans back on his elbows, because he gets to watch Ryan lean back and ready himself with his fingers, still kneeling with a leg either side of Shane’s torso. When Ryan finally sinks down, agonizingly slow, onto Shane and bottoms out with a gasp, Shane’s pretty sure he’s having a heart attack. They barely get into a rhythm- set by Ryan- before Shane’s bucking desperately, right at the edge, and going out of his mind. Ryan, perhaps sensing Shane’s closeness, grinds down, brings a hand to his own cock, and races past him to the finish line. Finish line, in this instance, being streaks of come across Shane’s chest. Shane is there a moment later, a moan he does not recognize pouring out of his mouth. 

The next night is much the same; Ryan flits around him, works him over, and pulls Shane’s metaphorical brain out through his metaphorical nose like he’s a metaphorical Egyptian Mummy. Ryan props Shane up, this time, on the headboard, and once again rides him to within an inch of his life. They are, at least, in a bed this time. 

Despite his efforts, Shane is pretty sure he embarrasses himself even more, laying back and letting Ryan do all the work, moaning and whining and writhing. He falls asleep thinking about that, and he’s still thinking about it when he wakes up, and when he makes his coffee, and by the time he’s out the door on his run he’s halfway to hysterical. Shane replays, over and over, the sounds he makes under Ryan, moaning breathily? Begging? 

The minute Shane walks in his door and looks through to the sofa, where Ryan is slouched, scrolling through his phone, It’s too much. Shane looks down at his hands, hoping for grounding, but his fingers seem strange and fuzzy and over-long. The apartment feels tiny, suffocating. He needs to go somewhere. For a walk, on a mission, something. 

“Shane?” Ryan calls out, “Can you please boil some water?”

“I’ll go pick some up,” Shane responds absently, and he snags his car keys from their hook and turns to walk right back out the door. 

“Pick some- What?” Ryan is calling out to him, but Shane’s already halfway down the stairs. 

How stupid is he? Here is the opportunity he never thought he’d have; the chance to touch Ryan, to look into his face openly, and without fear of judgement. Once in a lifetime, and Shane is going to fuck it up by not living up to Ryan’s expectations. Shane walks heedlessly down the road, and 10 minutes later, he’s at the grocery store, standing in the refrigerated section, trying to remember why on earth he’s come here, and what on earth he’s going to do about his life.

Another 10 minutes later he’s amongst the frozen peas, which is where Ryan finds him. 

“Shane?” Ryan calls from a few feet away. 

“Ryan!” Shane holds up the peas. “Can you remind me what you needed?”

“I was just angling for you to make me tea, actually,” Ryan approaches, lays a firm hand on Shane’s bicep. “And I’m a little intrigued to see how frozen peas play into that, but we have tea at home. Let’s go.”

Ryan buys the peas for Shane, because Shane’s had his hands all over them, which is unhygienic in these times, and also because it feels nice to hold them, for his hands to sting a little and grow numb from the cold. Ryan’s brought the car, and he steers Shane to the passenger seat and sits him down. 

“Are you okay? Do I need to call somebody?” He’s crouched next to Shane, speaking softly, and holding a hand on his forehead.

Shane’s feeling a lot more lucid now, with his peas. Lucid enough to feel embarrassed, that’s for sure.

“No, I’m-” He shakes the peas. “-I’m good, I think. I’m going to call it cabin fever.”

“I’ll ask Nurse Ratched to put that on the admission form,” Ryan says, smiling softly. 

There’s something else, of course, but Shane’s not sure how to broach it. It takes him the whole car ride home to screw up the courage, but by the time Ryan sits him down on the couch, and settled a blanket on his knees, and pressed a chamomile tea into Shane’s hands, it’s practically bursting out of him. 

“I don’t think I want to- I don’t think I’m a top,” Shane says to the wall just beyond Ryan’s head. Ryan freezes, just for a moment, then sits slowly. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot about it,” Shane continues. “And I don’t think that’s me.” 

Just saying it feels like unclogging a drain. Shane’s eyes, horrifyingly, are damp. He’s not sure what to expect when he finally meets Ryan’s eyes, but gentle amusement is not it.

“Shane-” Ryan rests his hand on Shane’s cheek. “Shane, do you think you’ve been _topping?”_

“I’ve been- I’ve been, you know,” Shane says, already feeling a flush spread from his nose to his cheeks. “You’ve been- I’ve been-”

“You’ve been penetrating,” Ryan interrupts. He drops his hand down to Shane’s collarbone, his index finger and thumb pressing gently on the tendons in his neck. “And you think that’s the issue? Or do you think you’re _supposed_ to be a top?”

Shane is just about at his limit, here. He’s surely bright red now, pinned unexpectedly beneath Ryan’s ever-surprising abilities of perception. Shane can’t even answer, can’t move. He tries to answer, but all that comes out is a croak. 

“Jesus, alright, I'm so sorry.” Ryan springs back from Shane, creates a veritable football field of distance on the couch. “I should have- I’m so sorry, we should have talked about this.”

Shane blinks at Ryan across the void of the couch. 

“I’ve… I _have_ been topping, right?” 

“You? No. Maybe in the traditional sense.” Ryan rubs a hand over his jaw, pauses. “But no. Not really.”

News to Shane. 

“But I’ve been trying to be-” Shane waves his hand vaguely. “-you know.”

“Masc?” Ryan’s mouth twitches.

“Yeah, I guess.” Shane drops his face into his hands. “And I thought because I was… _giving-”_

“I was just trying to ease you into it.” Ryan winces. “For lack of a better phrase. I thought maybe ‘giving’ was less advanced.”

“Yes,” Shane agrees, still covering his face.

“More comfortable.”

“It is.” 

The following pause dominates the entire room. When Shane looks up, Ryan is watching him closely, knowingly.

“You’re embarrassed.” 

“Yessir,” Shane says. “Humiliated, actually.”

“I should have- It’s my fault. We should have talked about it.”

“You talk plenty,” Shane says archly, and just like that, the tension leaves the room. 

There’s more of the talking from both of them that night. They tease out preferences (Ryan) and consult Urban Dictionary (Shane), and get frank in a way they never used to, when their relationship was merely a friendship. Shane thinks the whole thing might change them both irreversibly, but he isn’t worried. He’s full steam ahead, for the first time in a long time. 

Later, when Shane’s almost asleep, Ryan says: “We don’t have to do it like that, you know.”

“Do what like what?” Shane asks, sleep-muddled. 

“We don’t have to have sex like that. If you don’t want to. We can just do the other stuff, the...” Shane feels Ryan wave his hand around in the dark, searching for the words. 

“Couchjobs?” Shane suggests. 

“Couchjobs? What’s-” Ryan pauses. “Is that a portmanteau of couch and handjob?” 

“Mmm,” Shane agrees. “Or couch and blowjob. That’s what I’ve been calling it.”

“You’ve been calling it a couchjob this whole time? Without telling me?”

“I knew you’d be like this,” Shane says. “Full disclosure, I’m calling penetrative sex ‘mountaineering’. And I dowant to keep doing it.”

“You want to keep calling it mountaineering?”

“I want to keep doing the mountaineering. Or, uh, being summited.”

“Okay,” Ryan whispers. “Good to know. Goodnight.”

But only a moment later:

“‘ _Mountaineering’_ , Shane, really?” Ryan rolls over, tucks himself along Shane’s back. “Genuinely, what the fuck.”

Shane laughs as he drifts, happily, into sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

\--

Shane’s not entirely without instinct. Right now, for instance, he suspects he’s being ushered out of the house. It’s Christmas Eve, and Ryan presses a mask into his hand and asks Shane to go get him some Scotch tape. 

“You can’t go around the corner, though,” he insists. “You need to go down to the Target on Figueroa.”

“They don’t sell tape at Ralphs?” Shane asks, pulling on his boots. 

“City-wide tape shortage,” Ryan replies, his back to Shane.

“‘City-wide tape shortage’ is it?” Shane says later under his breath. He’s sitting in his car outside Ralphs, where he found and purchased three different kinds of Scotch tape. He’s been stitched up, of course. Shane sits in the parking lot of that Ralphs for just long enough to reach plausible Target timeframes, and drives home. 

At home, he walks directly into a trap. A death trap, that is, comprised of two dozen tea candles, lining the entry hall of Shane’s apartment. 

“Ryan?” he calls, stepping carefully around the candles. “Christ, is this a joke?”

He sends out a quick prayer just in case there’s someone listening who will save his floors, and thereby his security deposit. Following the haphazardly placed candles leads Shane to the door of his own bedroom. 

“Ryan?” Shane tries again, placing a hand on the door. “Am I in a video? A prank video? Or maybe a porno?”

When Shane pushes open the door, his bedroom is gaudier again, bedecked with candles _and_ rose petals, _and_ Ryan, kneeling wide-legged on Shane’s bed expectantly. Ryan has bright red splotches of color on his cheeks, and over his chest, and he looks like he’d be sweating through the armpits of his tee, if he were wearing one. But he’s not wearing a tee. He’s wearing perhaps the cheesiest, sexiest nightwear Shane’s ever laid his eyes upon. 

Ryan’s in some kind of negligee. It’s a brick-red number, sheer from the waist down, and all intricate harnessing and superfluous ribbons across the chest and shoulders. The slip appears to stop just at mid-thigh, or it would, if it wasn’t riding up Ryan’s thighs to expose a lacy strip of green fabric that would struggle to contain a lesser instrument than Ryan’s. As it was, Ryan looked half-hard, and his reddish flesh peeked out all over. Aware that he’s been standing in stunned silence with a tote bag full of Scotch tape for probably a full minute, Shane lets the bag drop from his shoulder and endeavors to say something, _anything._

Yeah, it’s working for Shane, alright. He’s breathless with need over the outfit, but he’s pinned to the spot by the look on Ryan’s face. Something Shane has seen rarely there, something that leaves him on edge, taut with anticipation. 

“Come here.” Ryan gestures to the bed. “Come sit down.”

“Did, uh-” Shane’s sure if he just gets a joke out, the illusion will be broken, and he’ll be able to retreat from this precipice. “Did you get the fire department on standby? I don’t know if the emergency exits are up to code, and-”

Ryan cuts him off with a hand on the side of Shane’s face, and a gentle smile. 

“Shhh now.” Ryan guides Shane down onto the bed, and sits at his feet to start on his socks. “I’m going to take care of you. Would you like that?”

Shane nods. 

“Yes?” Ryan stills his hands on Shane’s feet. “Would you like me to take care of you? Yes or no, please, Shane.”

Shane’s not really sure where this is going. He’s mesmerized by the patience on Ryan’s face, rare as it is, and the tilt of his head as he waits for an answer. 

“Yes,” Shane exhales. “Please.” 

“Okay,” Ryan’s smile is luminescent, and Shane feels instantly warm. “Shhh now, that’s so good. Just relax.”

Shane is not sure he’d call it relaxed. Ryan finishes with his socks and guides him back to lay on the bed proper. He starts at stripping Shane’s lower half methodically, guiding his hips up to remove his belt, chinos. Between every action, Ryan leans up to run a hand over Shane’s hair, or run his thumbs over Shane’s cheekbones. By the time Ryan gets down to them, Shane has leaked a dark spot onto his gray briefs. At this rate, he’s likely to die of heart failure before he gets to come. 

“Now Shane,” Ryan says, while working down the buttons of Shane’s shirt. “I need you to tell me if I do anything you don’t want.”

“Yeah, I-” 

Ryan stops Shane short with a hand over his mouth. “No, Shane. Listen to me. Anything you don’t like, at any time, for any reason. Yeah?” 

Shane nods. 

“Good. That’s so good.” Ryan takes his hand away. “Now say it out loud.”

“Yes.”

“Say ‘Yes, Mommy.’” Ryan’s mouth is twisted into a smirk, but his eyes look dark and serious as a heart attack. He amends, “If you want.”

“Y-yes, Mommy,” Shane must be beet red, but he’s overwhelmed by a wave of pure want at Ryan’s pleased nod. 

“That’s so good, Shane. _So_ good for me, such a good boy.”

Shane’s vision blurs, and for a minute he’s certain he’s come in his jocks, untouched, from Ryan’s voice alone. When Shane’s sight clears, Ryan is next to the bed, pushing down the panties, leaving his cock poking out, thick and obscene, from under the hem of his slip. 

“Ryan,” Shane pants, trying to sit up. “Please, please-”

Ryan keeps Shane still with a foot, planted gently on Shane’s abdomen. “Stay where you are, please.”

“I need-” 

The pressure from Ryan’s foot increases. “I know what you need-”

And with that he straddles Shane’s thighs in one fluid motion. He’s sitting back, and settles nowhere near Shane’s cock, but it jumps at the skin contact regardless. He shuffles up, lines his cock up with Shane’s. The chiffon settles around them, brushing over Shane, making his hips buck involuntarily. Ryan is dripping lube onto them, slicking them up, making an absolute mess of Shane and his sheets in the process. Shane is too far gone to care, though, with the feeling of Ryan’s dick slick and pressed against his own, and the way Ryan looks above him, equal parts imperious and affectionate, his skin going red around the harnessing on his chest. Shane reaches a hand up, gets the tip of a finger under one of the straps when Ryan slaps it away. 

“Only if you ask nicely,” he says, rutting his hips forward, still sliding his cock against Shane’s.

Shane hesitates, just for a moment. Enough for Ryan to still, to watch him cautiously. It’s obvious he’s ready to pull the pin the moment Shane expresses discomfort. But Shane isn’t ready to give it up. He knows exactly what he wants. He takes one deep, steadying breath, and leaps. 

“Please,” Shane breathes, steels himself. “Mommy, please, Mommy, I’ve been so good.”

Ryan’s eyes flutter shut, and his dick jerks visibly. It’s so good, Shane wants to _sing_. 

“Please, please let me touch your tits, Mommy.” 

Ryan’s gasping air like a fish out of water, but he seizes Shane’s hands, and brings them up to his chest. Shane spreads his hands across them, thumbs smoothing over Ryan’s nipples. He looks incredible, and Shane is pretty sure by now that he’s in love. 

They’ve moved, Shane suddenly notices, Ryan’s moved up Shane’s body, and Shane’s cock is slipping against Ryan’s ass. Shane tilts his hips and moans when it slips between Ryan’s cheeks. 

“Is this what you want?” Ryan grinds a little, until the head of Shane’s cock slips and sticks, just against Ryan’s hole. Ryan holds there. “You want to fuck me?”

“Yes, please, please, please,” Shane begs. He wants to thrust up, he’d just need to move a little, and then he’d hit home, but he holds. “Am I a good boy?”

Ryan groans, grinds down a little more. Shane is slipping in, but he wants to hear it first. 

“Mommy, please. Have I been a good boy?”

Ryan puts a hand on either side of Shane’s face, holds eye contact- “Such a good boy for Mommy,”- and then he bears down, impales himself decisively on Shane’s cock, and suddenly it’s a frenzy.

They’re out of rhythm at first, both trying to meet the other, both bucking frantically. Ryan’s the one to hold Shane’s hips down with one hand and set pace. He rides and grinds, and God, Shane was already so close, and now he’s not sure how he’ll hold onto his sanity, let alone forestall an impending orgasm. Shane is also, he realizes, letting a stream of moaning, pleading, and begging fall from his mouth, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do to stop it.

Ryan has a hand clenched in his own hair, and rolls his hips. Ryan is perfect and tight and hot inside, and this angle is _milking_ Shane. He’s so close, but Ryan’s slowed down. Ryan drags a finger around his own cock, gathering lube that pools at its base, and leans back, holding eye contact with Shane. 

“You’ve been so good,” he breathes out. 

Shane’s eyes widen, but he tilts his hips without hesitation. Ryan, arched back, slips one finger down to where Shane is seated inside him, touches there for a moment with a moan, and then continues. Back, and under, to press the pad of his finger against Shane. Shane groans. 

“Do you want it? Ask nicely.” Ryan picks up the rolling of his hips again, and waits. 

“I-” Shane is out to sea. “Please, please, yes. Please, Mommy, yes.”

Ryan plunges exactly one finger into Shane to the knuckle, and then rides like hell. 

Shane is coming in moments, bucking up hard, throwing Ryan’s rhythm over for ceaseless thrusting, that meets Ryan’s prostate and pushes the finger against his own. He comes with a wail, just a second before Ryan gives in too. 

Shane’s a little concerned he blacked out, because the next thing he knows is Ryan dabbing at him with a washcloth, and pushing his hair away from his sweaty forehead, and kissing Shane, softly. Shane brings his hand up to his ears, which are wet from trailing tears. 

Later, clean and resting, Ryan checks his phone. 

“Almost Christmas. And it’ll be 78 tomorrow,” he tells Shane, suppressing a smile. Shane groans.

“That’s fucking ridiculous, and you know it. 78 degrees on baby Jesus’ birthday, and you’re tellin’ me that’s normal, Bergara?”

“Climate change is a bitch, Madej,” Ryan replies easily. Shane hums. 

“I’ll go put the rosé in the fridge,” Shane says, throwing a leg across Ryan’s torso. “You call Schaumburg and tell ‘em to get the elders together; I’ve gone full LA, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remain steadfast in my opinion that Shane Madej is not your daddy dom. Man wants to take it. Open to all arguments, Allredpen on tumblr.


End file.
